The Broken Ones
by just-the-universe
Summary: Sometimes the greatest heroes have the deepest scars. A series of one-shots exploring the emotional and relational complexities within the Avengers. Set between AoU and Civil War. Rated M for suggested suicidal tendencies and other dark topics.
1. Chapter 1: The Broken Ones

**Hi all! This is just a quick one-shot, trying to look a bit at Steve and what it really meant for him to be unfrozen and some of his connections with Natasha. I hope you enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers. Or anything Marvel-related.**

"This is the latest."

An agent handed Natasha a tablet, video feed flashing across the screen.

"They're amateurs, bothering the minority groups in the west. Nothing challenging, but I was told to call in Team A. Team B is on break today."

Natasha pursed her lips as she flicked through the information. Giving the agent a quick nod and thank you, she turned her heel and strode purposefully out of the room. The corridor slowly emptied as she walked down it, the tablet now tucked under one arm. Already her mind was buzzing, getting ahead of itself as it started picking out weapons and transportation. Her feet halted at the door before she even realized where she was.

When her hand touched the door handle, Natasha froze. She blinked, stepping out of her daze, and frowned. The door was cracked open.

Steve never left his door open.

Natasha tapped her knuckles against the wood. The noise reverberated through the wood and no response came. After hesitating for a fraction of a second, she pushed open the door and stepped into the room, instinctively falling into her silent assassin poise.

The room was neat as always, a tawny leather jacket hanging from a peg, accompanied by a few black and white photographs on the wall. Natasha had seen them all before, and her eyes skimmed past the decorations. Three steps into the room and she found the Captain. He was standing with his back to the door, his head bent down, apparently gazing at something intently.

One more step and Natasha could see that it was a gun.

The man wasn't doing much with the gun other than staring at it with blank, distant eyes. He wasn't inspecting it in preparation for use, or cradling it with sentimentality. It was simply resting in his grip, his right hand curled around the handle, one finger loosely draped across the trigger. Every now and then his hands twitched, as though trying to raise it but finding it far too heavy.

It looked so wrong in his hands. Natasha wasn't sure she had ever seen the man use a gun. He was a soldier with a shield and Nat loved him for it. She loved him for his stubborn refusal to carry a weapon, his hardened belief that he could always avoid killing people. It separated him from almost any fighter she had ever met.

And seeing him gazing down at a gun like that made her blood run cold.

As she stood frozen in the entry way, she couldn't help but wonder how long ago he had taken it out of storage. Where had he kept it all this time? Stashed away in a hidden compartment, or on his dresser, where he could see it every day, almost as a comfort?

Without her bidding, Natasha's feet took her one more step into the room, and finally she could see his face.

His eyes were glassy and exhausted, the way they often were at the end of a fight. He had the same the same look he did when he gave orders during a battle. Calm, confident, but hiding a frightened uncertainty. Nat could see the emotions swirling beneath his tensed jaw and frozen eyelashes.

She knew that face. A knot of fear curled in her stomach. She had seen too many people gaze down at guns that way. Not as a method of defense, but as a way to escape.

A relief.

Natasha knew that feeling. All too well.

And when she looked at her captain, she saw herself.

Out of place. Broken by the past and clinging to a false hope that the future could be anything other than the present.

Two people without a place in the world.

Movement jerked Natasha out of her thoughts. The gun was rising—slowly, as though it weighed a hundred pounds—and Natasha came back to the present in the blink of an eye.

"Captain."

The man froze, gun mid-air. Then it tumbled from his fingers and bounced onto the bed. He turned around, quickly and ungracefully.

"Natasha."

His lips opened to say more, but no sound came out. For a moment they stared at each other, neither completely certain what to do.

And at that moment Natasha didn't see the Captain America she was used to seeing. She didn't see the man who had lived through World War Two, who had given his life to save people, who was wise beyond his years—the man she would follow anywhere.

Instead she saw Steve Rogers; a man who had been alive less than thirty years, carrying on his shoulders the fate of a world to which he didn't belong.

The tablet was still tucked under Natasha's arm, and Steve saw it, and managed a swallow.

Then, without really knowing why, Nat reached up and touched her headpiece.

"Team A is out. Send Team B into crisis 371."

Steve glanced away from her for a moment, then looked back and gave her a small nod of thanks.

Pressing the power button of the tablet, Natasha put it down on a table and gave the man a small smile.

"Why don't you come get some food with me?"

 **Let me know if you enjoyed it! :) Thanks!**


	2. Chapter 2: Coming Back Home

**So I was planning on just writing multiple emotional one shots about the Avengers, so I decided I might as well do it in the same story. I'm going to be posting a series of one-shots exploring the emotional and relational aspects of the Avengers. Let me know if it is or isn't working for you. I can't promise regular updates but I'll aim for weekly/biweekly, and I'll work my way through all the characters.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers.**

The sound of gunfire rattled through Clint's head. As it triggered in his consciousness, a cold dread soaked through him. His fingers clamped around the boy in his arms.

The machine gun was drawing closer by the second. In an instant Clint knew what he was going to do—what he had to do. A cold resolution accompanied by unashamed fear wrapped around his heart as he threw himself forward, turning his back to the gunfire, cradling the boy protectively in his arms.

 _Slam._

The bullets hit him with the force of a semi. Clint gasped, unable to feel or move as he hit the ground. His vision cleared just enough for him to see the red blood seeping through his clothing. Holes were gaping within him. Within his arms, the boy turned, unharmed, his shirt wet with Clint's blood. Before him, the child's face morphed into Cooper's.

"Daddy!"

His son screamed, grabbing Clint's shirt.

"Daddy! Daddy no!" Lila was running toward him, Laura just behind her. Clint tried to reach out to them. He couldn't move his arms, couldn't move his legs. Crushing pain weighed on his chest. He couldn't move. His lungs gasped for air as darkness crept into the edges of his vision. He could do nothing but lay there, begging for one more breath, one more chance to touch them.

"Clint!"

Clint Barton bolted upright in bed.

Deafening silence rolled through the bedroom. Clint blinked, taking in his surroundings. Moonlight shone through the window, creating shadows on the floor and outlining the trees outside. For a moment Clint sat there, breathing hard, staring into the darkness.

"Clint?"

Laura sat up in bed, gazing at him in concern. He rubbed his forehead, drawing a steadying breath.

"I'm okay." He eased himself back against the pillows. "Just a dream."

Laura laid back beside him, rolling onto her side.

"The one with Pietro?" she asked.

Clint swallowed. "The one without him."

Laura was quiet. Clint gazed at her. Her eyes shone in the moonlight, bright and perceptive. Under the covers, her hand found his and she interlaced her fingers with his.

"I'm okay," he said again, kissing her gently on the forehead.

Laura gazed at him quietly.

"You don't have to always be okay, Clint," she said softly.

For a moment Clint couldn't get himself to respond. The words caught him off guard and his throat was suddenly tight.

"All those years of fighting won't just go away in a couple months," Laura continued.

"I know," Clint said carefully. "I guess I just thought that after I retired, I wouldn't be afraid of not making it home anymore."

Laura studied him carefully. "You're a father and a husband. But you're also a fighter," she told him. "You can't just take that out of yourself. It's part of you."

Clint exhaled slowly and Laura wrapped an arm around him, her fingers tracing a scar along his side.

"Do you remember what I told you the first time I met Nat?"

Clint smiled into the darkness.

"You told me a lot of things," he responded jestingly.

Laura did her best to hide her smile.

"I told you that you couldn't fix her," Laura responded, returning to seriousness. "You could be her friend, you could help her learn how to trust, but you couldn't take away her past." For a moment they were both quiet as Clint thought back to a time that felt like a lifetime ago. It was funny, how Laura hadn't stopped being right since then.

"You can't change your own past either. You spent your life saving the world, Clint," Laura said finally. "Now you need to learn how to live in the world you saved."

Clint gripped her hand tightly in his own.

"Do you think I can?" he asked finally.

Laura pulled herself closer to him.

"I think part of you will always be Hawkeye," Laura said softly. "When you accept that, I think you'll be okay."

"And you'll be okay?" Clint asked, studying her.

Laura bit back a laugh.

"I've lived with you this long, I think I'll make it bit longer," she responded teasingly. "Now get some sleep, tough guy." She kissed Clint's temple. "It's your turn to get up with Nathaniel this morning."

Clint groaned, rolling onto his back.

"You couldn't have some mercy on your veteran?" he asked pitifully.

"That's what I gave you yesterday morning," Laura responded. "Now sleep," she ordered, squeezing his hand one more time.

Clint turned his head, watching as she pulled up the covers and shut her eyes. He kept his gaze on her for a moment, memorizing the way her hair fell gracefully about her shoulders in hopes that this time, he could dream only of her.

 **:) I apologize to Clintasha shippers, but I really love Clint and Laura. But there will definitely be some Clint-Natasha friendship sessions. Let me know if you liked it!**


	3. Chapter 3: Statues

**Hello! Wow I would like to apologize, I obviously over estimated how much free time I have to write... hopefully I will be able to be more regular now. Here is a Tony Stark one shot! I will confess that I find him one of the harder characters to work with so this is kind of me testing it out... there will be more of him for sure :)**

 **Again, I don't own the Avengers.**

"Sir? I just wanted to ask… are you planning on walking in circles all day long?"

Tony came up short as the words registered in his head. He found himself standing before one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out at Manhattan. He had one hand pressed against the glass, as if he were in a prison longing to get out.

"Should I cancel your meeting with the director?"

"No it's fine," Tony said quickly, dismissively waving a hand. "I'm good. Just thinking.

"Sir, the last three days you have gotten a total of 10.695 hours of sleep."

"That, I know." Tony wandered up to one of his computers, tapping the screen and pulling up his latest suit prototype. The lines seemed to rush toward him, rippling in and out of focus.

"Sir." Jarvis' voice carried what had to be the most polite undercurrent of irritation.

"I need an espresso," Tony muttered, exiting out of the window. "Or three."

Across the room, his espresso machine flickered to life as it responded to his request.

Then suddenly its lights dimmed and went out.

Tony frowned.

"Did you just power down my espresso machine?"

"I highly suggest you try sleeping as an alternate to espresso, sir."

"You know," Tony walked to the coffee table, examining his empty coffee mug. "When I gave you access to the house appliances, this is not how I wanted you to use them."

"I am simply trying to be helpful, sir, as I was programmed to be."

"Hilarious," Tony muttered.

The mug slipped from his shaky hand and fell to the ground, shattering.

"Great," Tony sighed. As he shoved the shards out of the way with his shoe, one of them caught on a page of newspaper that had been shoved beneath the table long ago. Easing himself down, Tony pulled at the page, blinking as dust floated into his eyes.

 _The Defenders of Manhattan: Heroes, or the Ones to Blame?_

On the front cover was a photo of New York with pillars of smoke wafting toward the sky and aliens clinging to buildings.

Tony felt like he'd been struck with a mean right hook. His head was pounding. The words blurred and the ink began to spread. It seeped through the entire page, turning it into a black cavern in his hands. A black portal, with lights, and a flickering network of Chitauri.

A distant knock on the door drew Tony back to reality.

"Come in!" he managed, pinching the bridge of his nose and dropping the paper to the floor before he could look at it again.

"Tony?" Rhodey's voice echoed through the room.

"Over here," Tony responded, dropping onto the couch. "Just, you know, making a mess of things."

Rhodey walked over, and abruptly froze at the sight of Tony.

Tony glanced down at his sweatshirt and jeans.

"Do I actually look that bad?" he frowned.

"I'd say you've looked worse," Rhodey started. "But that would be a lie. Maybe with the exception being the battle of New York."

Tony grunted as he said the words, feeling his head recoil with a fresh headache.

"I was going to ask if you'd finished the latest mark, but by the looks of things I'm guessing the answer is no," Rhodey said dryly, looking around the cluttered room.

"Still working," Tony responded absently, going back to picking up shards of porcelain off the floor. "Hit a few speed bumps."

"When was the last time you slept?" Rhodey frowned.

"Don't you dare go Jarvis on me," Tony threatened quickly, wagging a broken mug handle in his friend's face.

"Go Jarvis?" Rhodey's eyebrows popped up.

"He's been hounding me about sleeping all day," Tony complained.

"Yeah? Well, good job Jarvis. At least one person in this room is sane."

"Thank you, sir."

"Hey," Tony looked up. "I'm sir. He's Rhodes."

"My apologies. Thank you, Rhodes."

There was a small smirk on Rhodey's face as he shook his head in disbelief.

"You're a wreck, Tony."

"Really?" Tony held out his arms. "I thought I was a diva."

"We missed you at the statue dedication," Rhodey added cooly, observing Tony's reaction.

"Yeah, statues… not really my thing," Tony shrugged, trudging over to the garbage can.

"Nothing related to the Battle of New York seems to be your thing these days. You've missed every commemorative this week."

Tony grimaced at the floor.

"Your point being?"

"You're messed up, Tony."

"I thought we'd already established that," Tony responded cooly.

"I'm talking PTSD messed up, man."

Tony side eyed his friend.

"How would you know anything about that?" he asked, maybe a bit too viciously.

"I worked in the army, you know," Rhodey responded unfazed. "You don't fly through a space portal, prepared to give your life for your city, and walk away unaffected."

Tony's hands snapped the piece of mug he was holding in two.

"I would _really_ appreciate it if you stopped talking about that," Tony responded, chucking the pieces into the trash. He shoved his hands in his pockets before Rhodey could see them shake.

"I'll stop talking about it when you start talking to someone else," Rhodey told him firmly.

"Someone else?"

"A therapist. A friend even. Just someone."

Tony snorted.

"You know Wilson runs therapy sessions-"

"No." Tony interrupted. "I am not going to Wilson's therapy group."

"Why not?" Rhodey challenged. "Iron Man is too big and tough to admit he has problems?"

"No," Tony said. "Because… I can handle this."

Rhodey pursed his lips, looking around the room.

"Yeah," he said. "Obviously."

Rubbing his forehead, Tony sighed.

"Rhodes-" he started.

"No, no," Rhodey interrupted, backing away with his hands up. "I'll just let the big boy 'handle it'." He made air quotes. "And when that doesn't work for you, maybe just consider the fact that I do sometimes know what I'm talking about."

Tony watched silently as his friend escorted himself out. Looking out the window, he could just barely see the new commemorative statue put up in the honor of the Avengers down the street. A faint ache pulsed in the back of his head.

"Shall I cancel that meeting, sir?"

Tony sighed heavily.

"Yeah. I'm going to go sleep." Tony paused as he headed toward his room. "What time is that therapy thing?"

"Seven to eight tonight, sir. Shall I tell Mr. Wilson to expect you?"

"Of course not," Tony said quickly. Then he added, "Just set my alarm for six thirty."

There was a slight pause.

"Of course, sir."

"There's no need to be so smug," Tony muttered resentfully as he left the room, shutting the door forcefully just to prove to the artificial intelligence that he was still irritated. Even if he was maybe just a bit thankful.

 **I hope you liked it! If you did please let me know :))) I feel like this one maybe didn't get as deep as it could have so there will definitely be follow ups.**


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